Botched snap

December 31, 2006.

It was Bill Cowher's last game as a Steelers head coach. Heather and I had been dating for two years, and I had recently shared with her my faith in Christ. We were both still very young in our faith, and we didn't quite know what it meant to be a Christian.

The Steelers were playing the Bengals in Cincinnati, and as a New Years celebration, I bought two tickets to watch the game at Paul Brown Stadium. We drove five hours to Cincinnati, slept at a Holiday Inn, and in the morning we prepared for the game by coating our faces in black-and-gold paint. We both wore funny hats and carried our Terrible Towels. Mine was yellow; Heather's was black.

The Steelers were 7-8 and the Bengals 8-7. Pittsburgh was out of the playoff picture after a season marked as one big Superbowl Hangover. The Bengals, however, still had hope. The week before, they had lost a game to the Denver Broncos because of a botched snap causing them to miss an extra point. They were pinning their hopes on this game for a playoff seed. The Steelers had a chance to upset their rival.

As Heather and I walked toward the stadium, the city was filled with orange-donned fans. It was strange to see that effect of fanhood in a foreign city. I had been so used to the yellow and black walking the streets of Pittsburgh on game day.

"They all look like a bunch of hunters," Heather joked. But then she warned me, "Don't get in a fight with anyone. If anybody talks trash, walk away."

"If anybody says anything, I just have two words for them, 'Botched Snap,'" I said, referring to the loss to Denver.

Heather knew my tendency to get rowdy when it comes to the Steelers. I've never had a history of fighting, but I've often lost control of my senses. She had to hold me back and keep pushing me toward the stadium when some Cincinnati punk yelled, "Go back home! Pittsburgh is 300 miles that way!"

"We own this city!" I shouted back as Heather grabbed my Polamalu jersey. "Just remember when you miss the playoffs: Botched snap!"

We sat a dozen rows up from one of the end zones. Our whole row was filled with fans wearing Steelers gear. I felt right at home. Some guy behind me kept talking trash and running his mouth about this player or that player. I offered him gum and gave compliments to various Bengals players just to show him he wasn't getting under my skin. Heather and I had made two signs. One had a picture of a diving and fierce Polamalu with the words, "Pola Gonna Maul U!" And the other with the words, "Cincinnati Bengals Suck" since the game was being broadcast by CBS.

The Steelers dominated the line of scrimmage and Willie Parker churned out good yards and marked the game's first score with a touchdown from the two-yard line. The Bengals matched it with a field goal. Then, as the Steelers were about to go up 14-3, Parker fumbled the ball for a touch back. It happened on our end of the field, and I had the impulse to jump down and recover the ball.

The momentum swung like an open door into the Bengals' favor, and they came angrily with a 66-yard catch-and-run touchdown by Chris Henry. I was furious. We were letting a sure victory slip away. Another touchdown run by Parker, another touchdown pass by Carson Palmer. With a field goal, the Bengals went up 17-14. With a minute and three seconds left in the game, the Steelers tied it up with their own field goal. All we had to do is hold the Bengals and force the game into overtime.


But you could tell the Bengals wanted it. They had lost to the Steelers at home four years in a row, and they were determined to break that streak. They were determined for a playoff berth. In just five plays they set up for a 39-yard field goal to win the game. I was in disbelief. We had driven all this way. I had spent all that money on tickets and hotel and gas... Only to watch the Steelers lose.

Everybody was on their feet anticipating the kick. Heather grabbed my hand.

"Let's pray for him to miss," she said, staring into my eyes. There was something like magic in that gaze. Something that yearned. Like a power we could have over the world through prayer.

I hesitated. Prayer. Pray for a victory? Pray for football?

I thought about that idea for an instant, which felt like a moment, which felt like a second, which felt like the length of this entire game and the drive to Cincinnati combined. No. It wouldn't be right to pray for something like this. For a missed field goal. How many people in this stadium were praying for a win? How many were praying for the ball to split the uprights? Would God listen to either side more than the other? Or would He be disgusted by the notion of men asking for glory in sport, meanwhile abandoning church to surround this altar of end zones?

"No," I said to Heather as calmly as possible. "We can't pray for that."

She pulled her hand away from me and turned a shoulder. When I tried to hold her, she moved down a few rows. Away from me. Maybe she'd seen judgment in my eyes. But it wasn't that. I wanted to do right by God. I wanted to show Heather that faith in God was more than faith in a team.

She knows that now, and often knows it better than I do. But in that moment, we were young. We knew the Steelers' roster better than we knew God's character.

I held my breath when Shayne Graham booted the ball. It went up and up and swerved right just in time, like a plane changing course.

In overtime, we won the game on a slant pass to Santonio Holmes who sped past everybody on the Bengals defense.

I was happy because we'd won. But I was even happier because we'd done so without pretending that God cared about football as much as he did about our hearts.